It's All Wrong
by We Regret To Inform You
Summary: Somehow, I always imagined her funeral being in the rain.  Angst-y one shots.
1. Chapter 1

**Here's an angst-y one-shot from me. I think I've officially become obsessed.**

**Mistakes are mine. Choppiness is mine. Fringe isn't. ):**

"Don't." she warned, eyes ablaze and alcohol dripping from the creases if her mouth. "Don't say anything."

A light pink pastel color sifted through the tension in her skin and face and slowly spread itself across her upper cheeks, just below her green pools of rage. Embarrassment flickered and mixed itself into the pools as well.

"About your drinking problem, you mean?" he asked softly, while dipping his head and cocking it to the side, brow raised.

He was in her apartment, trying to stop her from drinking herself into oblivion again. His shoulders were tight and tense, preparing for the worst; the black shirt tucked into his low riding jeans accented his hair and facial scruff along with the sweat dripping from his exasperated expression.

"What drinking problem?" she snapped and turned her gaze away from his, swiping the drops of liquid off of her chin.

He sighed and leaned onto her kitchen table with one of his hands, making it squeak.

"There is vodka dripping off of your chin, Olivia." he stated matter of fact-ly.

He grimaced inwardly at seeing her in this state, catching her in a drunken daze. He cares about her, which is why he's tried to help her many a times before, but she always rejected in return. "Just talk to a therapist, 'Livia." he would plead. "Just talk to me." Sometimes he wondered if he should just leave her be to cradle with the now empty glass bottle by herself. The reason she drank was the same as everyone else's. They were sick of life and it's never-ending consequences, although he could understand why she needed this escape more than anyone else. Her job.

But every time he tried to ignore the stench of her breath, the bags under her eyes, and the weary expressions she wore to work with her each morning, his heart crumbled. It absolutely fell apart.

Which is why he came here tonight. It was his last attempt, his last reach to her deteriorating spirit.

"Stop denying it, please? For just one second." He kept his tone gentle and stern, as if talking to a child.

"I'm not denying anything, Peter." She grounded out his name and threw the empty bottle against the wall. It made a loud crash, raining tiny glass pieces over top of Peter's head.

"God damn it! Are you trying to get me hurt?" he yelled, abandoning the kitchen table and instead, used his hand to cover his head.

She remained silent, a sneer taking over her features when the sound of falling glass had stopped.

"I'm trying to help you." he breathed angrily, taking a step away from her.

This was impossible. Why couldn't she just understand?

"I don't need help." she whispered in return. Her voice betrayed her though. Doubt seemed to ease itself into the room and her frown.

"You know that's not true." he retorted aggravated.

"I hate you." she seethed, taking a step toward him, the jacket slipping off of her shoulder and piling onto the cold floor.

"Get out."

"Oliv- -" he started.

"I said get out!" she interrupted, screaming at him. "I can't. . . I won't deal with you. I've been through enough."

Her moment of weakness or realization peeked onto her face.

"I know, 'Livia. I know." he rushed when taking a hesitant step toward her slumped frame. "But you can't keep doing this to yourself."

Another step closer.

"I can't bear to see you like this, don't you understand?" he begged, emotions flooding through his bewildered eyes, mouth ajar.

Apprehension flickered in his gut, when he tries to touch her arm in a feather-like fashion.

She flinched at his touch, but didn't make an objection. This gave him encouragement to lay his whole, sweaty and clammy palm on her sleeve, as he entered her personal space.

"Please, 'Livia." he strained.

The strong stench of GreyGoose entered his nose and added to the salty water filling his eye lids.

"Why do you care so much?" she whispered, slurring in return.

A cool piece of metal touched her forehead and trembled along with Peter's hand.

"Damn. Thought I could keep the act going longer than this."

Her shadow went rigid, shrugging off his hand lying on her fragile arm in disgust and horror.

"Shape-shifter." she spat.

"Guess so." 'Peter' replied coolly, gun making a small ring on her skin where it lay.

"Look. I don't want to hurt you."

"He says with a gun to my head." Olivia returned, sarcasm dripping like the dried liquid on her chin.

"Don't. Push. Me." Each word emphasized by the cold of the metal digging deeper into her.

He truly didn't want to hurt her. In fact, he had began to fall for her, something he couldn't afford. The way Olivia kept treating herself did really cause him pain himself. But deceiving her, while she was so vulnerable. . . He couldn't do. Not even after 30 years of using other bodies to fulfill orders from the 'other' side.

"Oh, god." she warbled. "Oh, no. No. No. No. No!"

He was confused at first, but upon hearing the man's name or rather 'his' name over and over, understanding took place.

"Is he dead?" she screeched, jerking away from the weapon and collapsing onto the kitchen floor.

"Come on, 'Livia."

She looked up through swollen eyes and scowled at his use of her nickname. The one Peter used to call her. The real one. The dead one.

"You already know the answer to that."

She slammed her head down in defeat. Hard. All strength seemed to leave her body as she lay there, sprawled out next to his feet in a limp, heap.

"Shoot me." her voice cried through the sobs wracking her stomach, which began convulsing. "Please."

"Why?" he questioned silently, arm still extended with the handgun.

A moment passed, filled with more cries of agony and sobs, before she looks up at him and wiped her nose. Pure hatred radiates from the fists at her sides.

Suddenly, he found himself staring at the ceiling, on the spot where Olivia had been grieving the loss of, well, himself. Excruciating pain shot up his lower back, causing him to groan repetitively as he squirmed.

"You selfless vile." she hissed, standing over him.

He aimlessly scrambled with his hand, searching for the familiar object at her close proximity.

Olivia waved the gun toward his face sloppily, enjoying the look on it at seeing how the roles had reversed.

Sorrow conflicted with the surge of adrenaline on her face, fear and disbelief on his.

He stared up at her, blonde and red hair falling off of her shoulders, squinting in preparation for what was to come.

Two bangs sounded and loudly echoed through the empty apartment. His eyes closed involuntarily, his head throbbing. He struggled to remain silent, waiting for the onslaught of intense pain. But none came.

Sitting up, he looked beside him to find Olivia's frail, pale, and intoxicated body soaking in a puddle of blood.

**333**

**I think I was having a bad day when I wrote this?**

**LOL.**

**Let me know if my new obsession is a good one or a bad one. (:**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, I'm back. Sort of.** **Fringe isn't mine, of course.**

He watches the silver droplets of liquid falling from the sky bounce and roll off of the smooth, wooden casket in utter shock. She was gone. Her life had been ripped from her in an instant of morbid circumstance. He felt as if he'd lost his the moment she left as well. Who was he without her? A shell. One that was hollow and sullen, gathering specs of unrelenting pity dust.

The speaker up ahead drones on, trying hard to hide his annoyance at the weather and the little splotches of soaked fabric beginning to make patterns onto his crisp "funeral attire". The wind wisps through the ages of the book he's reading out of, adding the sound of fluttering paper to the already present unease.

Peter shifts his gaze toward the wrinkled portrait of Olivia's face sitting nearby. She's almost unrecognizable against the dripping color. Why she wanted this in the rain, he didn't know. "Its peaceful,Peter. It's the only thing that can make me forget." He reluctantly agreed to her proposal, but only because of the quick expression of happiness that overtook her grimace at the time. Now, the familiar grimace mocks him. _You should have been there for me_, it seethes. _You should have saved me_. Shaking the voices from his head, he then lightly brushes his beard with a finger and runs a weary hand through the dark strands flopping on the top of his drenched head. _I know_, he whispers back in defeat.

An endless pit, or so it seems, appears beneath his feet, threatening to engulf his trembling body in a comforting blanket of complete surrender. There would be no more running. There would be no more worry or doubt or grieving. There would be breathing and that would be all that fills his throbbing ears.

A tap on his left shoulder-blade creates ripples of irritation and snaps him out of the daydream.

"Son, the ceremony is over," Walter pants, stumbling slightly. His father's voice is shaky, careful even. "I think this is the appropriate time to leave." Peter only nods, but not before kissing the pale forehead of the woman he was and still is in love with before two broad men lower the eery box into the damp earth.

**Did you like it? Review. (:**


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